The Maid of the Whispering Hills eBook

Then from nine hundred throats there shot up to the
sky, turquoise and pink and calm, such a sound as
all the northland knew,—­the wild blood-cry
of the savage.

It filled the arching aisles of the shouldering forest,
rolled down the breast of the river, and echoed in
the cabins of the post, and with it there broke loose
the leashed wildness of the Indians. There was
one vast surging around the lodge where Ridgar knelt
with the figure of the chief in his arms, another
where a tumbling horde fought to get to the factor
and De Courtenay.

At the stockade gate Prix Laroux, swift of foot and
strong as twenty men in the exigency of the moment,
swept the women into his arms and rushed them within
the post. Above the hideous turmoil his voice
rose in carrying command,

“Into the post! Into the post,—­every
man inside! Man the rampart!”

It fell on ears startled into apathy by the suddenness
of the tragic happening, and there was a wild confusion
of white people pulling out of the mass like threads,
all headed for the open gate. Swift as light
those guards of the guns on the rampart sprang to place,
the watcher of the portal swung the great studded
gate ready for the clanging close, and, in a twinkling,
so alert to peril do they become who pierce the wilderness,
there were without only that howling mass of savages,
De Courtenay, McElroy, and Edmonton Ridgar gazing
with dimmed vision into the fast glazing eyes of the
dying chief.

Only they? Standing where she had leaped at the
cavalier’s kiss, her eyes wide, her lips apart,
was Maren Le Moyne. In the hurrying rush of frantic
people she had been forgotten and she was utterly helpless.

As in a dream she saw the leaping forms close in upon
the two men who fought for her, knew that those of
De Seviere were pouring past her to safety, heard
the boom of the great gate as it swung into place,
and for her life she could move. neither hand nor
foot. Her body stood frozen as in those horrid
dreams of night when one is conscious, yet held, in
a clutch of steel.

Over the heaving heads with their waving eagle feathers
she saw the head and shoulders of De Courtenay rise,
tipped sidewise so that his long curls swung clear,
shining in the light, and already he was bound with
thongs of hide.

She saw his handsome face again sparkling with that
smile that was so brilliant and that bore such infinite
shades of meaning.

Now it was full of devil-may-care, as if he shrugged
his shoulders at a loss at cards, and in that second
it fell upon her standing in horror.

“Ah, Ma’amselle!” he called, across
the surging feathers; “the tune changes!
But you have my heart, and I,—­I have one
kiss! Adieu, my Maid of the Long Trail!
The chance was worth its turning.”